


You Might Just Give Me Butterflies, But You'll Have Me Seeing Stars First

by krispyscribbles



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: A lot more minor characters, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, M/M, god wtf is going on, i don't specify years but, just a fun fic, rafa is a lil bit artsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krispyscribbles/pseuds/krispyscribbles
Summary: Roger Federer is a seventeen year old high school student who is (somewhat) single and not-quite-so ready to mingle. Among his peers, he's something to be admired; head boy, member of the School Board, Sports Captain.Rafael Nadal is a seventeen year old high school scholarship student who always has charcoal stains on his fingers and a boyish wonder towards the world.Mr. Sampras is a Physical Education teacher who enjoys dodgeball a little too much - so much so that it takes Serena Williams, fellow student extraordinaire, to diagnose Roger as mildly concussed after Rafael fired a ball straight to the side of his head.(Somehow, Roger still loves Rafael, but shh.)





	You Might Just Give Me Butterflies, But You'll Have Me Seeing Stars First

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally so mundane and written rather poorly but inspiration strikes when least expected no?
> 
> Age is literally so arbitrary they're all in the same year I cannot be assed trying to create a chart aligning them to their correct ages but that's why it's an AU babbey

There’s a new boy in Roger Federer’s cohort. 

He’s gangly and a little bit awkward, with long, dark brown hair, a pointed nose, and far too inquisitive eyes for someone their age. His skin is bronze and he’s obviously somewhat athletic, as indicated by his strong legs and ungodly biceps. He wears worn out t-shirts that look as old as him and plain hoodies or he wears sweaters that engulf him, and he always carries a large, beat up messenger bag with paper sticking out of all possible cracks and severe creases in the leather where the flap is frequently flipped. 

His name is Rafael Nadal Parera, but he likes being called Rafa Nadal, thank you. Roger finds out about him when Andy Murray, ever-so British in his politeness, introduces himself to Rafa on his first day: a bleak Wednesday, even by German standards. The Spaniard had clumsily shaken his hand and retracted almost immediately, leaning against a wall with his messenger bag clutched in his hands. A pencil was pressed between Rafael’s fingers and the bag, and it was obvious that he was caught off guard. Roger would have been amused had Rafael Nadal not looked like he was constantly on the verge of panicking, so he restrains himself from suddenly crashing the party and watches it unfold from his locker. He doesn't bother with appearances; instead, he blatantly stares at the two of them, knowing that no one would be brave enough to ask what he was doing. 

“Thank you very much, Andy, but lo sien - I sorry, must go see Mr. Borg, for guide,” Rafa says, fleeing from Andy in quick strides. He sweeps his fingers through his hair and almost runs into Djokovic in his haste, messily apologizing in an amalgamation of English, Spanish and German, before turning the corner and escaping from Roger’s line of sight.

Roger sighs and saunters towards Andy from his locker. Watching that entire ordeal tested his patience, but it seems like it paid off in one way or another. Andy’s smile is tight but bemused: he’s gotten more out of that exchange than he’d expected. Roger nods towards Andy, knowing that he owes Andy a few glasses of Roger’s father’s stolen whiskey, and heads towards their little group on the field, underneath the Great Willow. They were eagerly awaiting the news of a possible new member of their little group: Stefanos’ magic had worn off and they were hungry for fresh blood. This elusive Spaniard seems perfect for them, even if said Spaniard had never even seen any of them before.

When they see the duo approaching, Andy Roddick budges up with Mischa Zverev to make room for the other Andy and Roger. The group greets Roger with customary hellos before turning to Andy, all obviously anticipating the news about the new kid. Andy obviously felt uncomfortable at the sudden surge of attention and turned to Roger to take the brunt of the questions. But it was evident that Roger was happy to observe, leaning on Roddick and awaiting the first question to erupt.

“So, what’s his name?” Kim asks, taking a bite of Sam Stosur’s sandwich before handing it back to her. Andy raises a questioning eyebrow at Kim but shuffled nonetheless, swearing at Grigor for swatting his lower back when Andy had accidentally dug his palm into his thigh. 

“Uh, Rafa Nadal,” Andy answers confidently, and that appeased those who didn’t really want to know too much about this new person. Those people split from the group and pulled out a deck of cards, not bothering to shuffle properly. They were happy with the bare minimum until they could meet Rafa; they were the judicial bunch, the ones who stopped this group from falling apart. 

But the rest of them, like Marat, ever so nosy, seemed to want more.

“Spaniard, huh? Is he still tan, or is he pallid like you and Edmund?” Marat teased, the intent clear behind his joking undertone. Andy rolled his eyes and said, yes, he’s still tan. No, he can’t really speak English, let alone German. No, he didn’t know what classes Rafa was in. Yeah, he seemed pretty interesting: weirdly athletic, but super shy.

Roger was just listening before, but now he was invested. He knew not to fluster Andy Murray, lest he simply shut them out and go sit with Novak on the other side of their circle. With that being said, he’s not exactly subtle with his interest; normally he’d be telling Marat to knock it off and stop pestering Andy for Andy's sanity, but, this time around, his silence speaks volumes. Mirka looks at him funnily but Roger doesn’t seem to notice, far too invested in what Andy has to say (did you know that he doesn’t really smell like anything?). 

When Marat eventually runs out of the sane questions and divulges to the lewd and mildly disgusting, Roger finally kicks into gear and shuts down the conversation. Andy is grateful, it’s just too damn hard to see under all that British indifference, but Roger is far too consumed in his own thoughts on this Rafael Nadal to say ‘no problem’. Maybe it’s becoming a problem. 

The next time Roger sees Rafa (a week later), Roger is surprised to see a shadow of a dark brown mop hunched over the desk in the back corner near the window, scribbling furiously onto a piece of paper. He’s ten minutes early to English, which is a rarity in and of itself, but to see another living creature in the classroom is a whole other deal. Roger takes a seat in the middle of the room, close towards the door but not evidently displaying his want to leave the class, and takes out his textbooks, thumping them onto the desk before him. Andy Roddick will be pissed that he’s taking over his side of the desk, but that’s a small price to pay to get the Spaniard’s attention. It isn’t working.

“You know,” Roger starts loudly. That startles Rafa, making him drop his charcoal pencil. It clatters on the cheap linoleum floor and Rafa curses, bending to pick it up. Roger notices the smudges of charcoal on the tips of his fingers, and he smiles. An artist, huh? Wonder what he draws. Rafa raises his left eyebrow at Roger, and that causes Roger to hastily patch together what he was originally intending to say. It’s not every day that Roger forgets what he’s meant to say. 

“David Nalbandian used to sit there. Rumor has it that he jerked off in the middle of class to get out of doing an essay,” Roger finishes, smirking when Rafa goes firetruck red. To his surprise, Rafa doesn’t budge, but the blush doesn’t dissipate, even after a few minutes. Rather, it spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears down his neck. Satisfied with his engagement, Roger turns to sit in his own seat, impressed with the results, and pulls out two black pens (0.5 and 0.05 in fineness) and a blue one (a 0.3 this time), settling them at the edge of his desk. 

Within minutes, the classroom is flooded with students and Mr. Edberg comes in, settling the noise of rambunctious teenagers with as little as a stare. Andy passes him notes and Williams and Murray, when together, become inadvertent unfalsifiable asses in Mr. Edberg’s class, but all Roger can focus on is the soon-to-be familiar sound of charcoal scratching against high-quality paper. He yearns to know what Rafael is drawing, but he knows that it isn’t time.

The class is dismissed and Roger packs up slowly, careful not to crease his task sheet and essay outline. Andy’s long gone - Edberg, so used to Andy’s antics, simply shrugged when he walked out of class halfway through class. He’d not even asked for a reason: not after three years of miraculously teaching basically the same twenty students the same subject with increasing difficulty. Some, like Osaka and Bencic, are slow, but only because they are talking. They talk about Alexander Zverev, the new hotshot who’s been seen with Domi Thiem and Stefanos Tsitsipas, and wouldn’t it be hot if the three of them were together? Ew, of course not in that way, but that would still be hot...Roger drowns them out. 

Somewhat unsurprisingly, Rafael is still in the back of the classroom, scratching against the same piece of paper. The essay task is flat against his desk, untouched judging by the lack of charcoal stains, but the two pieces of paper besides the one he’s working on have multitudes of notes, in two distinct languages; Spanish and English. Roger seems unperturbed by the lack of German, which is unusual. They are in a German school, but he supposes they’re a bit more lenient when you’re seventeen and can barely speak two languages, let alone three. 

“Roger Federer, what you doing here?” Rafa suddenly says, looking up from his drawing. Roger raises an eyebrow and sits down on the desk opposite Rafa. His backpack is a considerable weight against his spine, so he settles it at his feet. It gives him a quick glance at the piece of paper, but not long enough to decipher the dark shadows and the dramatic lines. Edberg clears his throat and leaves, clearly telling Roger to lock up when he leaves. 

“Just Roger will be fine,” Roger says automatically, earning a small smile from Rafa. “No, seriously, don’t call me Mr. Federer. That’s weird.”

Rafa laughs, which Roger thinks sounds  <strike> adorable </strike> peculiar, and then abruptly halts himself. He wipes his hands on his black jeans, but he doesn’t seem to notice that it worsens the smudge of the charcoal on his fingers. He gathers the papers and gently files it away in his bag in a plastic slip, turning to Roger with furrowed brows. “You did not answer my question, Roger.”

God, Roger shouldn’t be loving the roll of the R, but he does. 

Somehow, he pulls an answer from his ass, saying it with confidence: “I just wanted to make sure you’re doing alright. I know you’re new, and that you aren’t stupid, but we have to look out for each other, right?” 

Rafa raises an eyebrow at that (a terrible habit, Roger thinks, the wrinkles that’ll show up aren’t worth the display) and crosses his arms. His biceps are in full view and Roger fights with himself to keep his eyes from roaming, which is a fight he wins. He keeps his gaze on Rafa, confident on the outside but shaking slightly. 

Roger has always known he wasn’t 100% straight, evident when he went through the weird on-again-off-again phase with Mirka while he sorted his shit together, but seeing something this  <strike> delectable </strike> godly being before him was stirring things he hadn’t felt since his stint with Roddick. Rafa had the right amount of masculinity, where it wasn’t overbearing but he didn’t look like he’d be able to be blown away, and always seemed to have a very inquisitive, if slightly lost look to him. He was simultaneously a man and a boy, in control but always in wonder, and Roger couldn’t help but want him. 

“Oh, yeah? I have sport next hour, but no idea how to get there. You help me?” Rafa teases. He knew the layout of this school like the back of his hand (Agassi made sure of it), and Roger knew that he was laying the damsel shit on thick, but something in him snaps with excitement. Who would have known that they had the same class twice in a row? 

Roger broke out into a smile and extended a hand to his damsel in distress, who looks at his hand as though it were some foreign appendage before taking it, relinquishing his hold to put his drawing inside a beat up notebook before folding the flap over. Roger raises an eyebrow and gestures to the pencils, which are quickly scooped up, and they both leave, knowing full well that they should have eaten during this interval rather than just sitting in an empty english classroom chatting. Roger can’t bring himself to care. 

“What ever would you do without me?” Roger says, unintentionally walking in sync with Rafa. Rafa rolls his eyes.

“Be late to gym class,” Rafa deadpans, making Roger giggle unceremoniously before he rights himself and leads the way.

They’re not too far from the gym, so neither of them are particularly panicked. However, the two of them still walk quickly, wanting to both change but not needing to say it. They pass Williams and Murray and the Zverevs, ignoring the surprised looks on their faces, and enter the changing rooms together. When they arrive, Rafa awkwardly shuffles into the largest stall and Roger chuckles, whipping off his shirt and changing into a worn-out Nike one. He shimmies out of his jeans and gets into his shorts, doubles his socks for no reason other than habit, then he throws on a cap in lieu of his headband. 

He hears Rafa banging around in the stall, which tempts Roger to offer help, but Rafa gets out soon enough. The previously conservative outfit (a beige turtleneck and velvet jeans) was shed for a sleeveless, shocking orange shirt and similarly dark blue shorts, low cut black and orange trainers replacing the worn leather shoes he previously wore. There’s a headband in his hair, which is simply thrown back, not tied, and Roger is struck by how shocking Rafa’s transformation is. 

“I come here on sport scholarship. Must stay fit, must do with same kit, no?” Rafa offers as an explanation. His ‘normal’ clothes are packed in a small cloth bag, far too dense to put inside the messenger bag, and Roger can’t help but feel a little cheated. He feels as though he’s seen Spider-Man change right before him. He holds in his surprise and nods, turning to shove his clothes in his backpack, and leads Rafa to the gym. 

Mr. Sampras is setting up cones and balls, and Roger knows that it’s enough for a student to have at least one at any given moment. He guides Rafa to the bag room, which used to be the equipment room before the school upgraded,and he dumps his bag into the cubby hole, shutting the door and going back outside. Rafa is obviously scrutinising the security of the place, but Roger hears the squeak of his shoes soon enough and sees Rafa zoom right past him. 

If Roger were to guess, he’d say that Rafa looks batshit insane doing shuttles in the middle of a high school gym, but he contradicts himself with the argument of whatever floats Rafa’s boat. By the time he’s finished, the rest of the class is pouring in, and Mr. Sampras has decided to separate them. Rafa looks at him from the other side of the gym, and Roger has to swallow to keep from breaking his poker face. 

Roger is too stubborn to admit that Rafa gives him butterflies. He tries to ignore Rafa as he dashes for the dodgeballs, knocking as many back as he can for his team before deflecting a shot from Goffin. He flies past the ball that Mr. Sampras aims at him, catches Maria out and avenges Novak as a result. But it only takes a goat-like bleat from Rafa and witnessing the muscles rippling in his left arm for Roger to lose his focus. Rafa’s mouth drops when the ball makes contact with the side of Roger’s head, making him see stars, but that doesn’t stop the chaos around him until it’s slightly too late. The headache blooms like a flower and Roger can’t help the groan of pain. 

It’s the first time he’s annoyed that Andy Roddick isn’t in his class. At least Stan is: he drags Roger to the benches while the commotion continues, and Serena conducts a simple concussion test. Sure, Mr. Sampras should be doing this, but he gets sucked into the games he builds, so Roger can’t blame him.

“-ger, focus,” Serena chastises. Roger apologises and she pats his cheek, repeating the exam. At this point, Rafa is looking on, but the sixteen other students and Mr. Sampras keep going for the sake of keeping the class running.

Roger knows he doesn’t want to kill the mood, so he tries. Roger really tries. He still fails miserably. 

“What’s the conclusion, Serena?” Stan says, quietly. Serena shakes her head, a frown on her face. Rafa’s expression of guilt crushes Roger, but he can’t really do much but wince as his headache pulses on the surface and deep within his brain. So much for being on time. 

Roger stays home until Thursday next week. His father took him to the doctor right after the accident and they concluded that yes, it was bad enough to stay home for ten days. Turns out that getting hit in the head with a dodgeball going at a little under eighty kilometers an hour batters the brain, so it was important that he take his rest seriously unless he wanted to prolong his symptoms. 

Normally, he’d want to be a little shit and fuck around, hurt himself a bit just so he could get an extra hour of sleep, but this time he obediently took his pain medication and rested. He knew it was because of Rafael Nadal, the Spanish Storm that had swept through Roger’s previously organised life and turned it upside down, and Roger couldn’t deny the genuine excitement he felt at the prospect of seeing his friends again; namely, one Rafael Nadal. 

It’s gotten to the point where he can’t even lie to himself anymore. Mirka has been his saving grace, talking to him in person to resolve his bisexual crisis. 

(She pets his hair, running her fingers through the freshly cleaned locks, and wonders how she got into the position of helping her ex hook up with someone she could barely call an acquaintance. 

“I think you’ve fallen for him, and you haven’t even realised it.”

Roger grunts noncommittally, resting a hand on his stomach. His head hurts, but at this point, it’s much more than the concussion. 

“Do you remember what you said to me, when we first started dating?” Mirka asks, scratching his scalp. It almost lulls Roger to sleep, had she not tugged on his hair to keep him awake.

“Ungh, I said a lot of things, Mir,” Roger murmurs, willing her to start over again by complaining, but quietly. Mirka chuckles, stroking his hair to settle him, but then looks down. 

“You said, ‘You give me butterflies. The funny feeling that makes me feel so light and makes my arms tingle.’ I thought it was adorable, but I only bring up your embarrassment to ask you this: does he give you the funny feeling, like you’re as light as air? Does he make the tips of your fingers tingle with excitement?” 

Roger rose from Mirka’s lap, an arm holding him up while he fussed with his hair. He knew he couldn’t lie to Mirka, not when she loved him at his worst and at his best.

“I...Yes. Yes he does, Mirka. Shit.”)

Today, he’s dressed in a soft yellow hoodie and a vertically striped t-shirt, simple jeans and black sneakers. He’s not dressed to impress like he usually does; Rafa wouldn’t be impressed with him just rocking up to school in a suit. God, is this what it’s like to actively try and impress a boy? Even Andy wasn’t this fussy. He brought his car just in case Rafa needed a ride or if Roger needed to whisk him away. Now or never, he told himself, and he really couldn’t deal with never. Not with Rafa. 

Roger shakes his head at his ridiculously pining thoughts and enters Mr. Edberg’s classroom, his first class. Rafa is still in the back corner, scribbling on a piece of paper, and Roger feels inexplicably nervous. He settles quietly into his seat and takes out his pens, two black (0.5 and 0.05 in usual fineness) and a blue (a 0.3, as always). Roger feels disappointed when Andy doesn’t show up; class is always boring without him. Still, Roger pulls out his essay, which has a few additional notes and pointers for each paragraph, and begins to write a rough draft to get his gears going. 

“Psst.”

Roger rolls his eyes and keeps his head down, mouth shut. Serena and Andy aren’t sitting next to one another, which is probably Edberg’s doing, so the class is relatively quiet. 

“Psst, Roger.”

Roger finally raises his head and does a brief scan, trying to see who’s saying his name. He sighs and ducks down again, seriously getting annoyed with whoever is making such a commotion. Thank God Edberg is basically deaf. 

“ _ Hijo de puta _ , Roger Federer!” Rafa whisper shouts, finally getting Roger’s (as well as half of the class’) attention. Roger burns bright red and he quickly writes a note, throwing it at Rafa before ducking his head and scribbling furiously. Marat and Mardy swallow their snickers, but Feli and Nando burst into little giggles for the next five minutes. It only takes a death glare from Roger to put them into their place, but it’s still embarrassing that they’re making such a commotion over Roger and Rafa trying (and failing) to communicate. 

When class gets dismissed, all seems to be normal. Feli and Nando give Roger a slap on the shoulder and David and Juan Carlos apologize for their antics, following them quickly, and Andy makes quick arrangements to meet under the Great Willow before ducking his head and leaving class. Mr. Edberg leaves as well, waving to Roger, and all that’s left in the room is him and Rafa. 

There are still smudges of charcoal on the tips of Rafa’s fingers and Roger wants nothing more than to feel them against his skin, staining his cheeks with dark streaks, and to feel Rafa’s lips against his own. For now, he settles on Rafa resting his fingertips on Roger’s forearm, calloused skin giving Roger goosebumps.

“I...I am sorry for giving concussion,” Rafa says, feet scuffing on the cheap linoleum. He’s resting against the edge of his desk, the artwork carefully placed far from the ledge. “Was accident, no?”

“Of course,” Roger replies, a miniscule smile on his face. Now is his chance. “You could make up for it, though.”

Rafa’s expression falls from soft, almost tender, to a stone cold determination. Roger almost feels guilty for making Rafa’s mood swing so violently, but seeing him like this is kind of hot, if he’s honest.

“How?” Rafa demands, as if it pains him to be in debt. His fingers wrapped around Roger’s wrist, but it isn’t painful; if anything, it keeps Roger from going too deep in his head, keeps this on track to be a date rather than a session at the confessional. It’s not that hard, even if the person he’s trying to ask out is acting like he’s about to be sent to the front lines.

At that, Roger smiles, just a smidge wider. He knows he can do this - he’s Roger fucking Federer, head boy, member of the Board. He’s meant to be the model student, and what model student can’t ask their  <strike> crazy sexy </strike> attractive Spanish classmate out on a date?

“You, me, a movie with popcorn, ice cream and burgers and a hike the next morning?” Roger offers, hiding his fidgeting fingers behind his back. No turning back now. 

He’s almost surprised when Rafa’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth drops a little, but he quickly composes himself and simply beams at Roger. Rafa’s mouth opens and shuts, as if he’s struggling to find the words for his joy. 

Just as Roger is afraid Rafa is about to pass out, Rafa pulls himself together. He pauses, takes a deep breath and says, “Si, I would like very much,” Rafa says, hugging Roger tightly. 

Roger hugs him back just as snugly, closing his eyes and really leaning into the hug. Roger finds it to be a privilege to say that, contrary to what Andy Murray said, Rafa doesn’t smell like  _ nothing _ . He doesn’t smell overbearing or spicy or musky; Rafa smells like the sun, warm and inviting and  _ exotic _ , even after at least two months away from his beloved Spain. Roger wants to bask in his glory, to spend whole afternoons in his arms, to smell the sunshine and what Rafa calls home. But, for now, they let go of one another in a daze and Rafa is still beaming as he gathers his things, getting ready to go to his next class - one of two classes that they don’t share with one another. 

Just as they get ready to leave the classroom, Rafa crowds Roger into the darkest corner of the class, clasping Roger’s jaw with one hand, and his hip with the other. “As long as you pay, I do whatever you want,” Rafa says teasingly, pecking Roger’s cheek. Roger blushes - Spanish passion conquered Rafa’s nearly impenetrable wall of shyness, so what would Rafa be like when he unleashed the beast?

Roger fumbled with his fingers when they parted, trying to find a witty comeback as Rafa took a few respectful steps backwards and got ready to leave. 

Out of nowhere, Roger says, “Don’t want to kill your expectations, baby,” and he knows that he caught Rafa off guard. Rafa looks almost startled and the blush returns with a vengeance, but they know they have to go. Roger smiles at him and yanks the door open, turning down a random hallway before he gets the compulsion to kiss Rafa. Even if he aches, for it, Roger knows he just has to be patient: it’ll pay off in one way or another. 


End file.
